


S A C R I L E G E

by rosesxmoonx



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Body Worship, Declarations Of Love, Established Relationship, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Implied Osmolagnia, Inspired by The Fall of Icarus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Light Dom/sub, M/M, Possessive Sex, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, surrender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:48:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25141159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosesxmoonx/pseuds/rosesxmoonx
Summary: “So delicious. So exquisite”, Hannibal thinks. He feels glorious, more than Holy. God himself would be jealous of Will’s reverence for him.It should be sacrilege to bask in such a vision, such a sight. Will Graham beneath him, praising him, loving him, offering himself to him, willingly, religiously.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 73





	S A C R I L E G E

**Author's Note:**

> With all that's happened, I've been spiraling in and out of some heavy, crippling depression. I'm so glad to have written something for my boys ^^
> 
> I saw this beautiful drawing on Twitter ( https://twitter.com/beatricenius/status/1068522158014394369?s=09 ) and this short one-shot began taking shape. Also, go follow @beatricenius on Twitter, they make amazing art. 
> 
> Here's a playlist to accompany you in your reading, enjoy
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLBQTHmoDC5S2ElAu7c5FbolUK41GhQ0Kh

The fog is consuming him, passing through his lungs like ghosts in empty hallways.

Will pants. He’s breathless. He thinks, not for the first time, that this is too much. Hannibal is too much.

Something is happening. He’s delirious, ecstatic, even.

He feels like Icarus, so close to the sun his skin is peeling, he’s melting. This, however, doesn’t matter. It never did, Will realizes.

Will feels he’s at the brink of death. He doesn’t mind perishing, not if it’s like this.

Will has long forgotten to remain with some sense of composure, his mind is filled with the strong scent of their allure, of fresh linens, the calloused touch of his beloved’s fingers… the sensual dance of their bodies.

Hannibal reaches down and kisses him, sloppy, genuine, as only he can, and Will moans deep, gut-twisting in delirious torment.

Hannibal.

Hannibal.

**_Hannibal._ **

His name is a song. His name is a mantra. His name is prayer― salvation.

 _“So delicious. So exquisite”,_ Hannibal thinks. He feels glorious, more than Holy. God himself would be jealous of Will’s reverence for him.

It should be sacrilege to bask in such a vision, such a sight. Will Graham beneath him, praising him, loving him, offering himself to him, willingly, religiously.

_Hannibal._

Will says once more, and Hannibal smiles, wicked, delighted, pushing further, keen to each whimper, each wayward glance.

Will looks absolutely disheveled, lips like roses, eyes like a raging ocean. He is about to tear at the seams, Hannibal is sure he can see flowers peeking from the sutures, Wolfbanes and Asphodels, and Begonias.

Hannibal loves it, and he wants nothing more than to ruin Will, pluck the flowers from his garden, use them to make a crown.

Claim his throne amongst the vines and foliage, amongst Will’s wicked woodland.

 _“Such a pretty sound, my love,”_ Hannibal whispers, breathing in the saline that clings to sunburned curls. _“Your skin smells of me.”_

**Hannibal.**

This time it’s louder, desperate, visceral. Will is feral, unhinged. Remarkable, as all fallen angels should be.

There’s movement, a sudden shift, waves crashing violently against a teetering boat, wanting to drown it, to claim it.

Will places a hand on Hannibal’s chest, wanting something firm to steady himself.

He shines, dazzling, his crown made of thorns, black roses, and sunlight.

 _“I feel powerful,”_ Will speaks softly, with such delicate precision. **Will should be sacrilege.** _“I feel powerful when I surrender myself to you.”_

Sacrilege.

His words are sacrilege and brutal candor, and it’s so, _so_ delightful to listen to. 

Hannibal grips Will’s hips, finally giving in to the feverish feeling of their alluring dance. He’s God. He’s superlative, supreme, omniscient.

The sutures open, completely, and flowers begin spilling from Will in currents. Hannibal relishes in the sweet scent, in the pulsating feeling connecting them with prickling thorns.

The world bends for them, turning this way and that.

It is pleasurable euphoria.

It is so much more than that.

Hannibal can see it now. Icarus touches the sun and falls, his feathers painting the firmament with glittering eigengrau.

Will, Icarus, falls with a smile, laughter creating shimmering bubbles in the air.

Hannibal feels baptized.

He feels admired, seen. He consumes the Earth with his sweltering glow, as he is God. He is the Sun.

Will settles on the plush satin below, fingers chasing as trickling drop of sweat down Hannibal’s neck, his collarbones, and onto the bed.

He’s unmade and beautiful as ever, curls matted to his skin, eyes the calmest ocean. His skin is a mirror, the sun coming out to admire it. Hannibal stares for the longest time, watching his light turn Will auburn then magnificent gold.

Hannibal smiles, languid, placid, content. He is seen. Admired. Loved.

_“My dearest Icarus, my sunshine boy”._


End file.
